


I Gave All The Wrong People The Right Pieces of Me

by rising_tide



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rising_tide/pseuds/rising_tide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura Hollis knows about the person that changes your perspective on life and love, who comes around at least once in a lifetime, but she never expected to meet hers so soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Gave All The Wrong People The Right Pieces of Me

When you love someone, you give them a piece of yourself. It’s a trade of sorts. A little chunk of your heart that’ll always house your love for them given up for that smile they shot you from across the classroom when there was thirty minutes left of a lecture you couldn’t wait to be over. A spot in your mind that’ll always have the memory of them when you try to memorize the way their eyes look in the lime light of the high school stage while you sit beside them watching a local theater production. 

But then, at least once in somebody’s lifetime, if you’re lucky enough, someone comes along and shakes life up a bit. A person who takes more than just a piece of yourself to claim as their own. More than just a place in your thoughts where they’ll live forever. They become a part of you, for as long as you live. They’re the one who makes every feeling you’ve ever felt for another person feel like a shade of what real love feels like, you just have to wait around to meet that person first. 

The moment before I met her, I was three shots down and two to go, sitting on a stool in front of the kitchen counter of a party surrounded on all sides by kids my age and older. Hair a mess of cinnamon locks, make up smearing underneath my eyelids, throat burning. I look up to find her staring at me with a glint in her eyes that will forever be burned into the hard drive of my mind. Out of all the people there, a melting pot of drunk high school kids hidden in the dark of a basement, she was the only thing that caught my eye since I’d stepped through the door.

She looked calm and composed, her intricate fingers curled carefully around a red solo cup as she continued to bore her eyes into my soul. Her hair was the darkest shade of black and it matched the swirling colors of her eyes, her skin as white as ivory, which contrasted marvelously with her divine outfit of inky material, her lips the shade of a blushing pink rose. Even to this day, I know that one day I’ll still be swearing that she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. There was something about her, something that was the kind of devastatingly beautiful that made you realize there must be a god out there somewhere to create it all. 

And right then, in the middle of our staring contest, some guy waltzes up and starts talking to me, giving the goosebumps raising on my skin a break. By the way his breath smelled and the way he flicked his hair over his shoulder tells me that he’s had more than a few drinks. It seems to me as if that’s the only kind of guy that attempts to hit on me, the ones with the liquid courage coursing through their veins. Just as he tries to sling an arm around my shoulders, I feel the delicate touch of trimmed fingernails on my bare shoulder along with a whiff of some exotic perfume. And I know it’s her that’s wrapping herself around me. 

“I’m sorry, Kirsch,” she says, her voice a song I could listen to on repeat for centuries, all soft and husky in all the right places as the words slip from her tongue. “I think your mother’s calling you.” The boy backs off immediately as soon as he meets her dark glare and slight smirk, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly before disappearing into the crowd of people surrounding the liquor table. And I’m left sitting there with her fingers taking in the skin of my neck, my whole body heating up as her thumb strokes my skin. “Thanks,” I manage to choke out without my voice cracking. I felt so jittery I couldn’t meet her gaze, the alcohol and butterflies swirling inside my stomach. 

And so she turns my head, her eyes flickering down to my lipstick coated mouth and her head tilting closer and closer. I would’ve let her. I would’ve let her kiss me. I didn’t even know her name, but there was nothing going through my mind the moment I saw her eyelashes flutter down to my lips, except for what the sensation of her lips might feel like. But at last second, she pulled away, mischief in her eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” she says. Her hand’s slipping through the cracks in between my fingers and suddenly we’re bursting through the door and out into the cool California air, the winking lights of the suburbs blinking at us through tall palm trees. 

Those tantalizing ivory fingers lead me away from the house and we walk in comfortable silence until we halt before a car my great grand father would have owned back in the day. A spotless, midnight colored 1964 1/2 Ford Mustang glitters underneath the illuminating streetlight we’ve stopped at, and I feel her eyes on me as I gawk at the sight. “Are you rich?” I stammer, the second thing I’ve been able to muster out since she saved me from Kirsch and almost kissed me. I internally cringe at the unusual high pitch of my voice, and she chuckles before opening the passenger door for me. “Not quite, cupcake,” I hear her murmur before she shuts the door after me.

I’ve never heard an engine purr the way that car did, the moment she put the keys in the ignition, it roared to life. It rumbled like earthquake and thunder, and you could feel the power shaking through the entire frame of the vehicle. “Where are we going?” I shout to hear myself above the howling of the chilly air pouring through the open windows as we blazed a trail through the freeway. It’s like she doesn’t even feel the cold. Her silky hair’s pulled up conveniently in a hair tie, the ends still whipping elegantly around her face as she turns to me and grins, the moonlight glistening over her long locks. She just smiles back in response, teeth pearly white in the light.

My father would’ve scolded me, the overprotective man he is. He’d gotten Stranger Danger into my head ever since I was old enough to understand what he was saying, and I was going against every rule he’d ever laid out for me. Getting into a car with a complete (not to mention breathtakingly beautiful) stranger, going at least twenty over the speed limit, and having the time of my life all at the same time. This is new to me, these overwhelming feelings that I made me feel like I was falling deeper and deeper into this nameless girl with the addictively sweet smile and the cascading locks of hair. I’d felt something like this before, many times, but never anything as strong as this. Maybe that’s how I knew she’d tear me apart somehow.

We roll to a stop, and there’s a sprinkling of dusk on the horizon, illuminating the slow rolling waves of the shore. Huntington Beach near the burst of morning splayed out before us. “Well, you sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” I say as I stare at the peeking sun rising from beneath the ocean, fishing for a name at the end of my sentence. Instead, I look over to find her seat empty. My car door opens, and she stretches her hand to me with that trademark smirk playing across her lips, “Hi. I’m Carmilla.”


End file.
